


Digits

by justaphage (DancingDragon42)



Series: OMGCP Tumblr quic fics [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Jack decides to become a ref instead of playing NCAA, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tumblr Prompt, probably highly unrealistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingDragon42/pseuds/justaphage
Summary: He was enthralling. He was—“Can I get your number?”He was asking for Bitty’s phone number.“(706)-555-0147” Bitty blurted out before he could think better of it. This was really happening; his first time starting and a hot guy was asking him out, holy hell.





	Digits

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a [tumblr post that was going about](https://justaphage.tumblr.com/post/156878762083/omgittybits-hall-of-famer-tonight-i-was), and lots of people were clamoring for a Check, Please! fic of course (some of them, well after I posted on tumblr....so perhaps bringing it over here will help people find it).

Freshman year had been just about hell on Eric Bittle, but sophomore year was looking up. Still, it was a bit of a surprise to go from averaging 3 minutes ice time per game to, well, this.

“Quinnipiac's first line is fast this year, so we need speed out there,” Coach Hall had said, and then—this was the part Bitty still wasn’t sure was real—had called _his name_ to start. 

But, Ransom, Holster, and Shitty were cheering him and slapping him on the back affectionately, so it must have actually happened. There wasn’t much time to dwell on it now, as it was. Bitty grabbed his stick and wobbled after his teammates down the tunnel.

He barely remembered the lineups being announced or the anthem playing and then he was at the faceoff, his stick chattering against the ice. 

The puck dropped.

Wagner slapped it back to Ransom, he sent it back up to Wicks to take it into the offensive zone, and Bitty was off all of his nervous energy from a moment before channelled into rushing to get open. 

With the game in motion, it was easy enough to forget he’d started. The ice, the puck, his teammates, they all looked the same as any other game and his mind narrowed down to that. He was flying over the ice, dodging checks and slipping between their defenses. 

Quinnipiac’s center snatched the puck off of a rebound of Wagner’s shot and took off for the neutral zone. Bitty went low, putting all his power into catching up. He reached his stick out and made contact but when he jerked back, his stick caught in the other player’s padding.

Their sticks tangled and Quinnipiac’s center went over them, crashing to the ice. The whistle blew; single minor on him.

He was upset of course, making his team play down a man isn’t good, but also, this is the first time he’s been on the ice long enough to get a penalty. His first trip to the NCAA penalty box—Shitty will probably shout about it and make him do a keg-stand later.

Bitty clambered into the box and dropped down to the bench, breathing hard. The Wellies had gotten back possession and if they could just hold on until his penalty was up he wouldn’t have to feel guilty— 

“Excuse me.”

The voice was close, not from the crowd, and Bitty snapped his head towards it. There was a man sitting right next to him and Dear. Lord. He was handsome, perhaps the most beautiful person Bitty had ever seen in real life, high cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and eyes—his eyes were the best part. Stunning, icy blue, but with the slightest droop around the edges that suggested he could really do with a good hug. 

He was enthralling. He was— 

“Can I get your number?”

_He was asking for Bitty’s phone number._

“(706)-555-0147” Bitty blurted out before he could think better of it. This was really happening; his first time starting and a hot guy was asking him out, holy hell.

“Actually uh….” The man flushed, then pointed to the clipboard he was holding. “I meant, your jersey number, for the record?”

Oh no. _Oh. No._

The suit, the clipboard, the fact that this guy was _sitting in the penalty box—_ Bitty had just thought an official was hitting on him.

“Fifteen,” Bitty squeaked out, feeling his own blush creep up onto his cheeks. He tried to steal a peek at the official, but he was hunched over the clipboard now.

This was, perhaps not the most embarrassing to happen in his life, but it was up there. To his credit, the officials were usually balding men in their fifties, not startlingly gorgeous men in their twenties. So, it took him a bit to connect the dots. At least none of the guys would ever have to know about this.

He pulled a deep breath in through his nose and blew it out slowly, trying to focus on the ice. The seconds were ticking down on his penalty and it looked like they were going to kill it.

_5_

_4_

The official stood up to open the gate for him and he was gloriously tall.

_3_

_2_

Fuck it.

_1_

Bitty stepped out onto the ice, turned over his shoulder, and said, “keep the number, just in case you’re ever looking for anything besides a jersey number.” 

He spent the rest of the game trying even harder than usual to stay out of the sin bin.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a more of this written, though it hasn't reached a nice stopping point like this spot yet. But yeah, I might add to this maybe? 
> 
> If you want, come yell at me about it [@justaphage](justaphage.tumblr.com).


End file.
